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For reasons not easily explained, the only thing my father and I truly have in common are the Alien movies. I was never terribly interested in my father's obsessions (professional football, yard work, premature hair loss) and my father was never particularly keen on my hobbies (vandalism, crank phone calls, justifying the school psychiatrist's existence), but somehow fate would continually have us seated next to one another in a darkened theater, enrapt before the latest Alien installment. With our plane delayed during a vacation in 1979, my father and I weathered a tropical storm to see Alien in a Waikiki multiplex cinema. In 1986, my dad clutched on to the back of my motorcycle for dear life as we sped across San Francisco to just make the sneak preview of Aliens. The solemn, suffocating atmosphere of Alien3 made it a less-than-ideal movie choice to boost our spirits while in Houston for my grandfather's funeral in 1992. Maybe we were both inescapably drawn to the severe, haunted sensuality of Sigourney Weaver's Ripley. Perhaps it was the morbid blend of highly stylized tension and shrewd action wrapped inside a fully realized sci-fi world. Or maybe father and son were simply brought together by a raging female figure with monstrous mood swings that instilled both fear and awe in her prey (mom was never a part of our excursions). In Alien, Ripley was an empowered victim who found it within herself to overcome odds stacked against her. In the sequel, she was a fierce single mom who could not only bring home the bacon, but fry it up with a flamethrower. A gaunt, shaven-head martyr in Alien3, Ripley was a cross between the Virgin Mary and Joan of Arc. Now with director Jean-Pierre Jeunet's Alien Resurrection, Ripley is nothing short of Jesus--second coming and all--except this messiah's blood is less wine and more extra-strength Drano. Two hundred years after her last, fatal alien encounter, Ripley is brought back to life, thanks to the wonders of genetic engineering, to give birth to the ultimate parasite--the same slimy, jack-in-the-chest that popped out of her at the conclusion of Alien3. After the critter (referred to as a "xenomorph") is successfully removed by creepy military scientists on a space station for "urban pacification" purposes, the Ripley clone is kept as some kind of morbid pet, unnerving her captors with observations like, "She'll breed. You'll die." Meanwhile, a smuggling vessel packed full of pirates (including Winona Ryder) delivers cryogenically preserved "hosts" for the dozen or so eggs Ripley's fertile xenomorph "child" has produced. Of course, Ripley's premonition comes true: The queen xenomorph breeds and people start dying. Only this time, Ripley is more than plucky prey: She's a xenomorphic half-breed with superhuman powers, battery acid for blood and a mean swish shot (lucky for Nike, basketball is still the preferred pastime of the future). Some goose bumps are summoned as the pirates and various hangers-on make their way to an escape craft (especially an underwater sequence where the aliens undulate like lithe, evil Keikos) but for the most part, the film is as devoid of true life as a reanimated corpse. The Alien franchise has always proven excellent grist for edgy directors with something to prove and the budget to pull it off. Ridley Scott's maiden voyage was an almost unendurable opera of anxiety. When James Cameron was tossed the baton, he spiked the tension with his characteristic blend of full-bore action, smirking one-liners and personal drama to create a white-knuckle ride that was both epic and intimate. Though oft-maligned, David Fincher's Alien3 is--in retrospect--a portentous, claustrophobic parable remarkably similar in tone and theme to his breakthrough Seven. At first, it seemed Jeunet's strong visual sensibility and unmistakably French quirks would make him a worthy candidate for breathing new life into the series. But the disappointing result is a frantic, Frenchified mess. His Delicatessen and, in particular, City of Lost Children were rarely more than a string of imaginative scenes whose fatiguing sums felt far less than their intriguing parts. Like Batman-killer Joel Schumacher, Jeunet's filmmaking skill lies more in storyboarding than actual directing. The principal flaw, though, is in Jeunet's labored rebirth of the film's heroine. Ripley is a postfeminist icon who has survived unspeakable horrors and responds with vulnerability, thoughtfulness and heroism that go beyond testoscermoronic "kill 'em all" macho emulation. Weaver plays her like a skilled juggler, balancing every imaginable face of the female personae--bitch, goddess, mother, maiden. But robbed of her very identity--and, for the most part, humanity--Ripley has been transformed into Xenomorph: Warrior Princess. Her metamorphosis is, in a word, alienating. When your heroes are no longer heroic and the sight of a wailing monster with moist, soulful eyes rouses pity, what's left? Alien Resurrection, that's what. With the arrogant assumption of yet another sequel tacked onto the thrill-challenged ending, the prospect of a new entry in the franchise is about as exciting as word of a new Starbucks. What's next, animated musical The Alien King? When I visit my father for Christmas this year, I'll treat him to Starship Troopers. |
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